


hold on

by Engineer104



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Coma, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied YumiKuri - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, implied jeaneren, implied springles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren being almost comatose after emerging from his titan is perfectly normal.  Nerve-wracking for his squad mates, but normal.</p>
<p>Or it used to be.</p>
<p>(Dumb titles are dumb.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on

**Author's Note:**

> I will go ahead and bet five white chocolate-and-macadamia nut cookies that no one will read this because character deaths are always a deterrent and also no major ships (although the jeaneren is fairly significant because i love it so sue me) but whatever.
> 
> Fill to a prompt on the kinkmeme (I'm too lazy to link and it's late).
> 
> Everything should be tagged, but let me know if there's anything else, yeah?
> 
> Have at it.

Mikasa has her arms underneath Eren’s, ready to pull him out of his titan’s steaming flesh after yet another one of Hange’s experiments, and for once, when the squad leader themself maneuvers towards them to hack his body away from the hot, exposed muscle, she doesn’t fight, doesn’t argue.

Eren is running a fever, hotter than usual, his eyelids cracked open just enough to show a hint of green-gray iris, and when Mikasa properly bundles him up into her arms, she can feel sweat soaking his shirt.  The usual fear at Eren’s condition floods through her as she forces herself to walk back towards the house, to jostle him as little as possible.

She kicks open the door and heads for the little bedroom set aside for post-transformations.  She gently lays him on the bed, swipes her hand across his burning forehead, and touches her fingertips to his lips.

Her heart almost stops beating when she can’t feel a puff of air.

“Oh, Eren,” she says, not really sure what else she can say.

“Is he all right?” someone asks from behind her, and Mikasa spins around to see Hange standing in the doorway, gear off, frowning.

“I don’t think he’s breathing,” she tells her, an alien yet so _familiar_ chill washing over her, so unwelcome after the feverish warmth of Eren’s body.

Hange strides forward so that they stand beside her and checks Eren’s pulse, resting their index finger against his neck.  “He has a pulse,” they reassure Mikasa, but the frown is still on their face, still revealing concern.  “But it’s faint.  We’ll have to keep a very close eye on him.”

Mikasa nods, and as she feels the tears pricking at her eyes, she lifts up the edge of her scarf and burrows her nose into the folds.

Sometimes she imagines that Eren’s scent still lingers on the fabric, but she knows better.

* * *

This is the longest that Eren has been in a coma, and when his breathing and faint heartbeat still don’t strengthen, Hange decides that Levi’s squad needs to monitor his progress.

Hange takes the very first watch, idly rearranging the room’s sparse furnishings during the first hour:  opening the curtains to let in a bit of sunlight, replacing the candle on the bedside table that’s barely more than a stub with a burnt wick, setting a chair on either side of Eren’s bed, because they know he’s loved – or at least liked, appreciated, respected – by his squad mates.

When nothing in the room is untouched, Hange takes one of the chairs for themself and shuffles through all the notes on the titan-shifting experiments.  They frown occasionally, through their theories, wondering why now, why Eren should be so weak after only _two_ consecutive transformations.

Why was the Female Titan so strong, able to transform multiple times?  Why can the Armored and Colossal Titans emerge from that searing flesh almost entirely unscathed?

By all means, it makes no sense that Eren is so different, and at first Hange supposed it’s his impulsiveness – his eagerness to expend energy – or even his inexperience.  But strange then, that it used to be so much easier and less taxing for him (although still exhausting, definitely), but now, falling into a coma for days on end, heart beating so faintly that they have to press their ear to his chest to hear it, it doesn’t seem at all that he’s recuperating.

In fact – and Hange _abhors_ this possibility – it’s almost like he’s dying.

* * *

Sasha sets the bowl of stew on the bedside table and looks down at Eren’s blank, slumbering face.  “I brought you something to eat,” she tells him.  “It’s still warm, and I even stole some salt, so it’ll taste good.”

But she should’ve expected him to stay silent, unresponsive.

She sighs and takes the chair next to the bed; it’s still warm, recently vacated by the last person that watched over him.

Sasha isn’t quite sure why, but she finds herself talking to him, confiding in him.  The room is too silent, especially a room with Eren as half of the population, and although she doesn’t know him particularly well (but she knows the important things, that he’s courageous and inspiring and determined), the words come easily.

They’re silly confessions at first:

“Remember that snail in your food once during training?” she wonders, plucking at the ribbon in her hair.  “I put it there so you’d pass it on to me.  Oh, and remember when you and Jean got locked together in the equipment room?  That was my idea too; well, Connie helped. . .”

She trails off, leaning forward and patting Eren’s cheek; it’s a strange compulsion, and she’s surprised by how soft his skin is, how it burns like a flame, and it stirs unpleasant memories.

“I’m from a hunting village,” she informs Eren quietly.  “Everyone knew how to hunt, everyone went out after the animals, and sometimes it was dangerous.”  She inhales sharply, bracing herself, and she can hear the village accent slipping into her voice.  “When I was eight, my mama got gored by a boar,” she admits.  “It was so bad, but it looked like she could get better, but the wound got infected and. . .”  She sniffs a little and rubs at her eyes, surprised to feel the dampness there, but she still continues, “She was just as hot as you before she died, with the fever, and. . .”

Sasha covers her mouth to muffle the strangled sob that escapes her.  “D-don’t die, o-okay Eren?  Y-you haven’t d-destroyed the t-titans yet, and i-if y-you die like my mom, I-I’ll never f-forgive you.”

They’re so scary, she wants to tell him, and you’re the only one who’s not afraid.  But by now, she can’t speak anymore.

When Mikasa comes in to relieve her of her watch, she’s grateful that she doesn’t comment on the tears streaming down her face.

* * *

Armin can’t stand it, can’t stand seeing his friend lying prone on the bed, lips barely twitching with breath, hair only stirred by the gentle breeze from the open window.

He paces around the room, anxious, thoughts buzzing through his head, asking himself why, why, _why_.

_Why_ is Eren the one lying, so still and silent, as if dead?  _What_ did he do to deserve this?

Maybe it’s just a crime to strive for the world beyond the walls, and his punishment is only now catching up with him.

Armin doesn’t think he’s a bad person, but his mind can’t help but conjure a list of people that would be better suited for death, whose existence is less beneficial than Eren’s.

The thoughts are dark, and Armin pinches the skin at his wrist to banish them.

He holds Eren’s hand in both of his, alarmed enough by the hot skin to flinch at first, but he grips it tightly, running his fingertips along his dry knuckles and smooth nails.

“You’ve already died before, Eren,” he mumbles to him.  “Why do you have to die again?”

But he won’t die, Armin tells himself.  He _can’t_.  Humanity needs him, the Survey Corps needs him, the squad needs him, Mikasa needs him.

Armin needs him.

Armin knows that he’s weak, knows that a bright mind will only get him so far in the cruel world they inhabit, knows that even though Squad Leader Hange and Commander Erwin and Captain Levi value his opinion he can’t hope to ever get in their league, to make a difference, that the difference is, truly, for Eren to make.

* * *

Once upon a time, Krista Lenz would’ve been moved by the display of brave, passionate Eren Jaeger lying comatose, almost dead, on his sickbed, would’ve done whatever she could to ease his suffering, hoping hoping  _hoping_ that he would open his eyes, glance around, as if confused, before mumbling something like  _‘Mikasa I’m fine’_ or  _‘Armin tell me about the ocean’_ or  _‘No Jean you’re wrong’_ .

But Krista Lenz is no more, instead replaced by the empty girl that masqueraded as her for three years, and Historia _wishes_ she could find it in herself to care, _wishes_ that Krista hadn’t faded away so completely and absolutely, but she can’t.

She feels no sympathy as she sits beside his bed, eyes flickering over to his body every once in a while, as if looking for a sign of life.  She idly grabs his wrist and tries to locate his pulse, frowning ever so slightly when she can’t.  But she knows he’s still alive by the tiny hiss of air from his nose, the gentlest rise and fall of his chest.

She slumps into the chair, staring vacantly at the window, at the fluttering curtains and the darkening sky.  She wonders about Ymir, wonders what Ymir would think of her now, if she would even recognize Historia Reiss as the girl she fell in love with.

But Ymir left her, so it serves her right.  That’s another thing Krista would do that Historia can’t.

Krista would find it in herself to forgive Ymir, but Historia knows that she never will.

* * *

Connie feels as if life has been cheating him lately, that seeing his village destroyed, his mother as a titan collapsed on the ruins of his house, watching Reiner, the boy he admired, looked up to, respected, transform into an enemy of humanity, observing as Hange and Armin came to awful, mind-numbing conclusions that he only half-understood, would be enough.

But no, apparently Connie and his friends are destined to lose their squad mate too.

Connie knows he’s not smart – dumb, even.  He heard it time and time again from his family, from their drill sergeant, whispered between his fellow trainees.  But this time, Connie won’t be caught off guard.

This time, Connie braces himself for Eren’s impending death.  At least he didn’t betray them like Annie, Reiner, Bertolt, and Ymir.

The darkness still takes a toll on his already heavy heart.  He doesn’t laugh as much as he used to, doesn’t contribute to the stilted conversation at meals, already awkward with Eren’s condition hovering in the back of everyone’s mind – or in the front of Mikasa’s and Armin’s and maybe even Jean’s if Sasha is right about him.

(She probably is; Sasha’s usually good at guessing these things.)

He doesn’t like keeping watch over Eren, doesn’t like the stillness of his sickroom, the sweat on his brow and pallid tone to his dark skin.  Connie can feel his own palms dampen, and he rubs them on his pants.  It’s dark in the room, so he lights the candle on the bedside table, because although his thoughts are grim, he doesn’t want the atmosphere to be.

A shadow falls across the bed, and Connie flinches and spins around in his seat to see Sasha hovering over him.  “Hi,” she says quietly, smiling slightly.  “I, uh, brought you some tea.”  She offers him the mug in her hand.

He accepts it gratefully and wraps his hands around it, gripping it firmly so it doesn’t slip from his damp grasp.  He sips at it, pleased that it even has sugar and is only lukewarm, just the way he likes it.

Sasha shoves him lightly, and he scoots over to make room.  They ignore the vacant chair on the other side of the bed in favor of giving each other wordless comfort.

Sasha snakes a hand around his waist, probably both for balance since her position can’t be too comfortable and for the physical contact.  “I hope he’ll be okay,” she mutters into his ear.

Connie can feel her breath against his skin, but the sensation doesn’t make him shiver as per usual.  And, quietly, he speaks for the first time since he entered the room:

“Me too, Sasha.  Me too.”

* * *

Eren’s obstinacy has never, not once in the three or more years that he’s known him, ceased to amaze Jean.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Eren?” he demands during his watch.  “Just wake the fuck up already; it’s been ten fucking days.”

He walks the length of the room, antsy.  He can’t stand still, can’t sit still, can’t even keep his eyes on Eren for longer than a second at a time.

Jean hates the way his gut and heart and brain all seem to clench and throb at the sight, just hates hates _hates_ , and it’s no longer directed at Eren, not really, probably hasn’t been for a long time.  And he grins wryly to himself when he realizes that, for the first time, he might loathe the titans more than Eren does.

Mikasa waltzes into the room sometime during his watch, graceful as always.  She holds up a mug of tea, and he just stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“I haven’t poisoned it, Jean,” she tells him.

“Uh, of course,” Jean mutters awkwardly, taking the hot beverage from her hand.  “Thanks.”

She turns to leave, glancing over her shoulder at him, offering a tiny smile.  He gapes at her as she departs, and wonders if he imagines the slightest bit of gratitude and comfort he saw in her eyes.

Probably; Mikasa is as unreadable as ever.

Jean sits heavily at Eren’s bedside, sipping at the tea, careful not to burn his tongue.  He lightly swipes his free hand over Eren’s forehead, and _of course_ his fever sears his skin more than the tea.

“Fucking asshole,” Jean mutters.  He grips his thigh, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his pants, a part of him wishing he held Eren’s hand instead of that, instead of the mug.  It’s right there, even, lying over his blankets, perfectly intact, with bitten nails and calloused knuckles, but he keeps his own hands as they are, refusing to bend to temptation.  “I never even got to tell you.”

“Tell him what?” Armin queries from behind him.  When Jean jumps, startled, but doesn’t respond, still scowling at Eren’s face, he presses, “Jean?”

He glances over his shoulder, at Armin, and lies, “That he’s an asshole and a suicidal bastard.”

“You’ve mentioned that to him before,” Armin points out as Jean turns away again.

Jean just stares blankly at Eren, at the stupid, uncharacteristically peaceful expression, at the way someone – probably Mikasa – combed his sweat-damp hair across his forehead.  He chews on his lip and grumbles, “We need you, you fucking bastard, so don’t you dare fucking die.”

“He’s not going to die,” Armin says quietly, placing a gentle hand on Jean’s shoulder.

Jean grunts in response, and even though he’s still a little hopeful, even though Eren once burst out of a titan’s body alive and well after everyone thought he was dead, he knows that Armin – even if he doesn’t quite want to admit it to himself – is lying.

* * *

When Levi watches over Eren, he busies himself, dusting the windowsill and washing the panes and sweeping his floor of hair and dust and dirt tracked in by the careless recruits.  He wishes he could strip the sweat-soaked sheets from the bed and launder those as well, wishes that his idiotic subordinate could lie comatose on something  _clean_ , but Hange already instructed him and his squad not to move him.

They don’t want to risk aggravating his condition, after all.

After he’s done as much as he can, he perches in the chair, crossing his legs and arms and slouching.  Eren barely breathes, and Levi wonders how much longer it will be and whether he’ll bolt up or kick the bucket first.

Of course Levi hopes it’s the former, that he’ll jerk awake and be ready to get back to work, to persevere towards humanity’s brighter, titan-free future.

But even if that _does_ happen, he knows it won’t be that simple, that his muscles have lain still and useless for almost two weeks, and he can already see the signs of atrophy, his arms and legs thinner than they were when he still walked and talked and had that lively spark in his open eyes.

“Lazy brat,” he mutters to himself, but the insult holds no venom, no malicious intent.  It’s stressful, dreadful, _awful_ , but Eren has no more control over this than he has over the fucked up, secret intentions of the Military Police.

An awful stillness falls over the room, and it’s so quiet that Levi can hear the sound of water dripping from the just-washed windows.  At first, he has no idea why the atmosphere is so stifling, why it should suddenly be so deathly silent, unless. . .

Levi leans forward and grabs at Eren’s wrist, feels for a pulse, and when he can’t sense one, he rests his fingertips against his nose, his lips, searches for the rise and fall of his chest, for the rush of blood through the artery on his neck, for a slow but steady heartbeat.

He stands, slowly, prepared to call Hange even as that old, familiar pain of losing someone threatens to overwhelm him.  He already lost Isabel, Farlan, his old squad. . .  And Eren is the last remnant of that, and yet here he is, body still and even more lifeless than it was moments ago.

How strange, Levi thinks, how ironic and _horrible_ that Eren, a blazing inferno, simply flickered out like a candle flame.

Eren is – _was_ – the hope for humanity, a means for them to win, but now Levi can’t help but wonder if there was ever even a chance at victory.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated! (Especially since I killed my favorite character.)
> 
> (Especially for typos and OOC-ness. Yikes.)


End file.
